


a quiet night

by lyrahc



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Post-Volume 5 (RWBY), Romance, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22541380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyrahc/pseuds/lyrahc
Summary: “You’re staring again, darling.”“I can’t help it,” the blonde purrs in return, allowing a low, rumbling chuckle to drip from her lips as she averted her gaze, “You’re just so… perfect.”
Relationships: Weiss Schnee/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 1
Kudos: 58





	a quiet night

**Author's Note:**

> this unfinished peice takes place between the end of volume five, and the beginning of volume six.

Yang wanted to relish the days off they were granted—but after all that time, she just couldn’t stand to be alone. No one could, really, if they were going to be honest—nobody would say it though. Slipping off into different little groups, everyone settled down—their voices heard in distant corners of the house—every little whisper of a sound brought the blonde some peace. Little reminders that they were together, that they were okay and safe and there.

That’s what mattered, really.

That—and the warmth of Weiss’ lap where her head rested—put her at ease.

The blonde just needed that touch to keep herself composed, to feel safe herself—even if Weiss was simply reading her scroll, slender fingers nestled into golden tresses. Occasionally, those fingers give a scratch or rub—a hum always reassured the hand that she appreciated it. Sometimes her own tanned hand would raise, brush across pale cheeks, push some hair, before falling back to her stomach—never any words, though. It was comfortable for the both of them—listening to the bustle—and their own silence sounded a lot like _I love them._

Any time those lilac eyes are open, they’re staring—it’s the warm kind of stare, where your eyes are still, but quivering without reason—the way you stare in love and pain all at once. When they’re not open—they rest where they plan on staring next. They flutter and shake and Yang swears she feels like crying because she just can’t help it—mouth getting dry and breath temporarily short—because she loves her so much. She’d dart her tongue out to try and amend it, to no avail.

Hours probably passed by the time the sun no longer lit the room—and the voices quieted till there was little more than their breaths filling their room, filling the hush. The rustle of the bed and clothes caught Yang’s attention again—that, and the hesitant movement of Weiss’ body as she moved to turn on the lamp—and they both exchange a sweet glance.

“Sorry—I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Freckled cheeks wrinkle with a smile, and the blonde shakes her head, keeping her voice low and warm, “No, no. Thanks for being my pillow, snowflake.”

A quick and teasing wink is shared as she sits up, setting a hand between them as she dipped her head—examining the girl in the lamp-light. Silk and lavender seem to replace her eyes as they draped and swiped over every little curve of those pale cheeks—taking in her beauty like a breath, and exhaling her adoration with each blink—she just can’t help it. Weiss was just _so damn pretty_ , with those perfect blue eyes and her perfectly shaped cheeks, and jaw and… The list could have gone on, but Yang had to let go of the breath she didn’t realize she was holding, cheeks flushing at the little laugh that sounded from the Schnee, whose silvery voice rose against the quiet.

“You’re staring again, darling.” 

“I can’t help it,” the blonde purrs in return, allowing a low, rumbling chuckle to drip from her lips as she averted her gaze, “You’re just so… _perfect_.”

Cool fingers brush across her lightly tanned jaw, giving a little pull to turn her head closer, soft lips ghosting over her own rough ones in a kiss—but she adds the pressure, bringing scarred fingers to cup the girl’s cheek and hold her there. Bits of her said to never stop, to keep her there forever, like she wants to—but she doesn’t, her lips curling into a stupid happy smile, and she feels that smile mimicked against her lips as she pulls back, giddy beyond belief. 

“Says you,” Weiss finally breathes out, moving her hand away from Yang’s chin and letting it drop down to lace their digits—and she responds with a soft, understanding squeeze. Letting the moment sit, they smile—drinking in their peace, and letting it steep in and warm them like alcohol. 

They sit there, letting the feelings linger just a little too long—the good way, like the still after sunset, where light clings to the skyline for just a moment longer than it’s meant to, but the lights are too good and too warm to feel _off_. Truthfully, that’s just how Yang would stare—in awe, like she’s starstruck, and for just a little too long, a little too _drunk_ by her heart’s pounding in her chest, by the beauty in front of her and she just can’t _help_ it. 

These are the very moments that softly tug away her arrogant mask—not that it was so strong now anyways—and melt her down to a bubbly concoction of affection and tenderness, filling her brim with emotions, flickering and fleeting between _every_ array of feelings she could possibly have. Her chest gets tight, like her heart is pressing so hard against her ribs, wanting to leap into the oblivion—into love—and it starts out at the tip of her tongue with azure warmth and a sad compassion, to her chest in rose red passion and love, dripping to her toes in iris worry and heather fear that churns her stomach. 

“I love you,” those words carry more weight than she meant to let on, sounding taut. Worry was scribbled across her face—in the creases and wrinkles in her eyes to the curve of her lips—and she couldn’t hide that, especially not from Weiss. 

“I know.”

It’s bittersweet, really—Yang wants to ignore that sick feeling rising in her stomach, but she can’t. She tries—considering rough kisses and distractive touches, but they don’t give way. It almost seems to strengthen it, and she holds that hand tighter, drawing herself closer to speak—and that low, warm voice doesn’t become more than a frightened whisper, gaze quivering, “You’re… You’re so beautiful, Weiss…”

It’s not hard for her to catch the brief wrinkle—the way it rolled from Weiss’ brow to her lip and faded in her attempt to comfort—and the blonde lets her head droop for just a moment as that sweet voice pressed to her ears and echoed in her skull. 

“I know that voice… Yang, What’s wrong?”

 _That_ made her heart clutch, pound just a bit harder, and burn the blood flow in ears like a too hot shower or like she’d been sitting too close to a fire. It shows in the way her shoulders drop—it’s almost guilty, like a puppy who knew he’d done wrong—because she knew she was supposed to be happy, to be enjoying what little time off they had. It shows in the furrowing of her brows and lips and cheeks, around her eyes and brushing her jaw. 

“Nothin’,” she tried to lie, to convince herself that she’s not stuck—that she’s not been replaying that dreadful moment in her head like a song she hates to sing. The moment kept her up at night, reliving it like it was the first time, and it hurt like _hell_. It hurt to recall that brief glimpse of time, that moment, where she thought she had lost Weiss—and that was what made it so _damn_ hard. A part of her had nearly been torn out, forcefully and as abruptly as being shoved into ice water. 

It wasn’t meant to happen, really—but it did, and her shoulders grew taut, written across the shiver in her eyes, and the way her knuckles were white with their grip. It didn’t help that no-one had the gall to bring it up, pretending that it didn’t happen. 

But it _did_. 

“Yang.”It’s soft and sweet but stern and frustrated at the same time—maybe it’s the emotions they hold that makes it that, but they’d never really know. Regardless, it stirs the blonde enough to make her eyes fall straight to her worry. 

“ _Yang_ , talk to me.”

It’s all a blur—those words, a cool hand ghosting over her face and holding her jaw, the brushing of lips against her own, and the hug—and it made her heart pound, threatening to break through her ribcage. She doesn’t remember bringing her prosthetic arm up, cradling her, or closing her eyes—much less when she forgot to _breathe_.

She doesn’t remember when she got teary eyed, or just how long she sat there, unable to even speak before she managed to even whisper. 

“I was so scared,” she choked on the words, wishing she could swallow them and hide that weakness, that… vulnerability. 

She can’t, she knows that. 

“I know.” 


End file.
